


The First Noel

by Britpacker



Series: Seasons Of Goodwill [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Christmas Eve and the party’s in full swing.  Malcolm’s brooding – but somebody might be about to change his perspective on the season for ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Noel

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimers apply: They're all the property of Paramount (God bless 'em) and I play for pleasure, not profit. Add in the fact I've got no beta and - well, only the errors are mine!
> 
> This is the opening chapter of a festive series that, in later episodes, will become both futurefic and (offically) AU - unless, like me, you're prepared to accept "Those Were The Voyages" never actually happened...

As the strobe lights rigged to pulse across the mess hall blazed his way he shrank back, grateful for the obscurity of a small corner table half-hidden behind the engineering staff’s best attempt at an artificial Christmas tree. The party was in full swing, lubricated by Chef’s own idiosyncratic take on the classic gluhwein and much-too-loud music with inane lyrics about _Christmas coming this time each year_ trilled by (he was reliably informed) one of the greatest American bands of the 20th century – _The Beach Bums_ , if he’d heard Captain Archer’s enthusiastic holler above the first few annoyingly tinkling notes correctly.

He wouldn’t, Malcolm Reed conceded morosely, be surprised. Still, it made a change from that long-haired wassock from Warlock - or something of that sort – chuntering on about _wishing it could be Christmas every day_.

Christmas Eve aboard Enterprise. It was almost enough to make a sensible man long for the Delphic Expanse.

At least there nobody had flung their arms around him and slobbered over his cheek while loudly admonishing him to “Come and have a little fun, Lieutenant! It’s Chriiisstmaaasss!”

If he ever found the cretin who’d unearthed that ancient Slade song form the archives, shooting practise in the armoury would get a great deal more entertaining. _Nothing like a live target to get the trigger finger itching._

In truth, he acknowledged, taking another cautious sip of his strong, warmed wine, he probably wouldn’t have to look far for the culprit. The Expanse had knocked the stuffing out of everyone: even with the Xindi threat neutralised it had taken time for the horror of that desperate race to wear off. But nobody, for all too obvious reasons, had been more affected than _him_. The life and soul of every party had been reduced to a gloomy shadow, and it had broken his heart.

Which was why, overwhelmed with relief to see that great big goofy smile again, Ebenezer Reed Esquire had acquiesced in the whole stupid, wasteful, soul-scrapingly miserable business of planning a shipwide Christmas party.

At least now the alcohol was kicking in people were becoming properly selfish, enjoying themselves without trying to chivvy along anyone who dared to mope on the edge of the excited crowd. The first half-hour, with Hoshi, Travis and the rest trying to jolly him into joining their tables and every young woman on the ship emboldened by the party spirit to approach with a ratty shred of plastic mistletoe draped hopefully over her ear, had been purgatory.

It wasn’t, Reed conceded, that he actively disliked this time of year; and he had no objection to people having a good time. He didn’t even, as a general rule, mind his close friends attempting their kindly bullying tactics to involve him in their antics. 

Sometimes, he actually rather enjoyed it. 

No; it was simply the sight of what he’d longed to see again for far too many wretched months since the Xindi attack against Earth that had him glowering into his wine cup, wishing the drink was strong enough to dissolve the sensation of bubbling tar that churned through his guts. Trip was hooting with laughter, his golden head thrown back as he led a boisterous conga line around the large room, letting himself be snogged by all and sundry whether that confounded bloody weed was in the offing or not. He looked like the old, carefree Trip Tucker, the one Malcolm had fallen hopelessly in love with so long ago, and it was more than his heart could stand.

Self-pitying tears stung the backs of his eyes and he dropped his head before the glare of nauseating lights could betray them. It should be enough to see the man happy again after all he’d been through. He should be praising whatever gods happened to be out there that Trip was still willing to be his friend. 

He had no right to sit in a dark corner and sulk because that extraordinary, brilliant, beautiful creature couldn’t love him the way Malcolm Reed longed to be loved.

But it was bloody Christmas, he was fucking miserable, and he was sodding well going to do it all the same.

Another raucous cheer resounded around the hall but he was past raising his head to see why: Travis, probably, or some equally bold and intoxicated twat checking whether the captain still had his tonsils. The music changed to a lilting, stupidly sentimental piece about _the most wonderful time of the year_ , and his shoulders circled through a silent harrumph. Perhaps it was, if one was minded to look for a diamond in the pile of dog shit that constituted the other fifty-one weeks.

The noise of the party gradually dulled into a drone that thrummed at the base of his skull. Individual voices merged into an anonymous, impersonal whole that surrounded him without quite penetrating his abject bubble. He dipped a finger into his deep claret gluhwein, morosely watching the liquid drip from the tip. Finish the glass then go. He’d shown willing; nobody could expect any more.

Thus determined, he sucked in a deep breath, lifted his over-spiced, still-steaming mug and glugged.

“Easy, Malcolm.” Lurching out of the spiky shadow cast by the “tree” Charles Tucker III, steadied himself with a hand on the Englishman’s slumped shoulder. “We run outta deuterium anytime soon, I’m gonna get some of this stuff off Chef to power the reactor! You got a steel-lined stomach or somethin’?”

“With the standard of catering at boarding school, very likely.” He spluttered a little, but actually the mulled wine wasn’t all bad. At least its peppery heat counteracted the awful lurch of his chilly heart when caught unawares by the object of his pathetic bloody lusts. Trip snorted.

“I never had to develop that – not with Mom’s home cookin’,” he bragged as he slipped into the seat opposite. “You in a hurry to get somewhere?”

“I was about to call it a night, Commander.” The title made him sound defensive and caused a flash of hurt across the Southerner’s face. “Sorry. Trip.”

“’s better, Loo-tenant.” He had to smile at the familiar retaliation, the deliberate mangling of his rank, feeling the giddy effect of strong booze on a virtually empty stomach. “I was thinkin’ of headin’ home myself; wait up a minute an’ we’ll go together, yeah?”

Not trusting himself to answer, Reed stooped to grab a scruffily-wrapped bottle of Risan brandy, his prize from the evening’s gift grab. “You did well for yourself,” he commented, popping up from under the table to see his friend clutching two neat parcels. “Went back for seconds, did we?”

“Uh, not exactly.” Trip was a natural bluffer who seldom betrayed embarrassment – just as well, considering the effect of a bashful Tucker on Malcolm’s blood pressure. 

_Oh._

A gift from Captain Johnny, then – probably something childish, crude or both in retaliation for the stream of blue movies Trip had arranged (with a little help from the local experts on Enterprise’s comm. system and covert ops to bypass their First Officer’s eagle eye) to greet him in his cabin before the party. 

Visibly trying not to nip at his full bottom lip, Tucker cast his eyes down and thrust the larger box, carefully tied with a red satin bow, across the table. “Merry Christmas, Malcolm.”

For an instant he could only gape before the meaning of the shy gesture hit home and his abused heart slammed hard against his chest wall. “You shouldn’t – I mean, I wasn’t expecting…”

“Just open it, okay?” Evidently pleased the handsome blond fidgeted in his chair, fighting off a mammoth grin that erupted like a starburst as Reed obeyed, teasing the tissue paper away from the square box and popping open the lid.

On a bed of shredded paper sat a small silver replica of a sailing ship, her rigging made of gossamer wire that clung around unfurled sails of pure cream silk. “It’s s’posed to be the ship your namesake served on at Trafalgar,” Trip explained anxiously, blocking what little light their corner caught as he leaned eagerly closer. “Belly-somethin’ – Bellarofian?”

“ _Bellerophon_ : Billy Ruff’an the sailors called her.” A model ship. Not the obvious gift to give an aquaphobic, but he couldn’t have produced anything to touch Malcolm more. “Trip’s it’s exquisite! You – you made it yourself?”

“Yeah.” self-conscious pride suited the man as well as Decon’s soft blue glow and the rest of the room faded from Malcolm’s consciousness. “Cap’n said your however-many-times great granddaddy spent ten years aboard: said she was a third-rate ship? Don’t sound complimentary…”

“It means she carried les than eighty guns – seventy-four, actually.” And along the tiny gun deck, Trip had carefully etched a neat row of closed gun ports. The amount of effort involved left Malcolm reeling. Not only a present from Trip Tucker, but one the man had lavished time and attention on – and as he was as pernickety about his work Malcolm himself despite a more lackadaisical demeanour, that meant…

No. He didn’t dare to think what so much effort might suggest about Trip’s affection for him. The Southerner was, as he often said himself, _a generous kinda guy_. He might have made gifts for all the senior staff.

With a shaky hand he lifted his treasure high enough to catch the light, enthralled by the sparks which lanced from its silvered hull. “This is – wonderful, Trip. I – thank you. It must’ve taken you ages to…”

“I’ve been workin’ on it a while. Cap’n told me about that other Malcolm Reed.” Watching the startled question racing through his companion’s ever-changing eyes, Trip added a hurried explanation. “You mentioned him durin’ that little stint of yours spiked to the hull, but you were pumped full of Phlox’s happy-juice so you prob’ly don’t remember. Johnny said he made admiral.”

“Er – no, I don’t.” Great Uncle Jackie he remembered talking about, but not Great-Granddad-times-whatever. “He’d barely been aboard six months as a midshipman at Trafalgar; watched Napoleon surrender on her quarterdeck as a lieutenant ten years later. Admiral Malcolm was something of a hero to my father.”

And old man Reed had spent his son’s childhood trying to mould the boy in his idol’s image. “There’s admirals in Starfleet too,” Tucker pointed out, careful to hold a neutral tone. 

Thin, well-cut lips twisted into a painful sneer. “Not the same thing; and anyway, with my history I’ll be lucky to make it past lieutenant-commander.”

Before the protest could touch Tucker’s lips he had himself under control, flexible mouth turning upward into a faint, wry smile. “Not that it matters much to the Old Man where I end up,” he said, controlling his wince against a forced lightness that wouldn’t fool a deaf-mute. “And she’s beautiful, Trip; I’ll treasure her.”

The look of delight that shone from the engineer’s ocean eyes was almost his undoing. “But I didn’t think…”

“That’s okay.” From his jeans pocket Tucker produced a tatty scrap of green plastic, snub nose wrinkling as he took in its crumpled state. “Uh, I wondered if you’d be willin’…”

Mistletoe.

It rose in slow motion while his mind race as if he were under enemy attack, a thousand questions, speculations and ideas clashing off each other inside Malcolm’s skull. Trip’s full, pink lips were puckered, his eyes wide and the hand that held the cheap plastic tat trembling. It couldn’t be real. He was dreaming.

_One way to find out, Malcolm my lad._

Stretching out of his seat he met his best friend halfway, and doubt dissolved.

No dream could feel as good as those warm, malleable lips pressing his. Only in reality could the faint woodsy tang of Trip’s chosen cologne tickle this deliciously against his nostrils. Something brushed through his hair – the fake plant sprig, he realised woozily, Trip must have let it go as his arms dropped to encircle him.

Syrupy warmth erupted through his belly at comprehension, melting him into the other man’s hard chest and he sighed, languidly raising his own suddenly heavy arms to embrace the Southerner. Something like seasickness rolled over him for an instant, then was gone.

Trip had moved, he realised. They were side by side on the same small chair, hanging onto each other like a pair of raddled drunks.

_Or a pair of lovers who couldn’t be closer while still in their clothes._

The sticky sensation in his gut seeped southward. Going there in a crowded mess hall – not a good idea.

Something wet and supple brushed his lips. Willingly, he let them part.

And gravity went gloriously offline.

Sweet, warm and slightly spicy from the mulled wine he’d consumed Trip tasted heavenly, and underlying the myriad of identifiable tastes was the subtler, richer one that was all his own. Greedily Malcolm sucked the tongue that duelled with his, letting himself drown in heady sensation. His surroundings had dissolved until there was nothing but Trip, the strong arms around him and the intoxicating taste of that mouth systematically devouring his own.

He heard himself whimper when it ended, his body arching to follow the enticing mouth, swollen lips already tingling with the need for more. “You were talkin’ about makin’ a getaway?” Trip murmured, frowning at a voice barely recognisable as his. Discreetly dropping his gifts below the midriff, Malcolm rose.

“If you’re ready to leave, Commander,” he replied, the hated title suddenly a weapon of flirtation. Even in the low light of their secluded corner he could see Tucker’s eyes darken.

“After you, _Lef_ tenant.”

He couldn’t feel the deck plating beneath his feet. Answering the halloos of his friend with unwarranted enthusiasm Malcolm positively sauntered to the door without daring to glance behind. He didn’t need to. 

He could feel the exhilarating warmth in his wake, and it was all he could do not to dance for delirious joy. This Christmas looked like being a very merry one after all.

*

Long before wakefulness could come he was aware of it; the sweet soreness emanating from his arsehole that spread like warm honey over his whole body. With a sleepy purr he pushed into a lazy stretch that was stopped by something solid and faintly scratchy.

Malcolm Reed’s eyes flew open, meeting the glistening summer-ocean ones of Charles Tucker III direct, and his drowsy contentment bloomed into chest-stretching joy. “It wasn’t a dream.”

Trip’s smile melted all bar one significant portion of his anatomy which, always ahead of his brain in the mornings, nudged happily against a hairy thigh. “Nope. I’ve pinched myself a dozen times, an’ I got the marks to prove I’m wide awake. And you’re still here.”

“Well it _is_ my bed. I mean…”

“Yeah, I just can’t believe you let me share it last night.” Careful fingers stroked a few wayward curls from his brow and Malcolm let himself relax into their touch, aware the tart words had been taken as intended, a wry joke. More than one former lover would have been off down the hall in a naked huff, he reflected. But those former lovers hadn’t known him as Trip did. 

He felt himself being lovingly shifted until he lay on top of the taller man, their noses (and other protrusions, he noticed almost absently) rubbing. “I thought I was takin’ one helluva chance last night, Malcolm, whatever T’Pol said. I didn’t sleep much ‘cause I just had to keep lookin’ at you in my arms.”

The tenderness in his hushed admission stole what was left of Malcolm’s breath. He ducked in to kiss a little of his lover’s, letting himself float on the unadulterated taste of the man until he could trust himself, shakily, to speak. 

“Whatever _T’Pol_ said?”

Sheepish Tucker had always done strange things to his innards; nude, semi-aroused and cuddly, the appeal was quadrupled. “She, uh, kinda knows how I feel about you and when I mentioned the ship she gave me a real kickin’. Said she thought you might be interested and called me every kind of fool for not tellin’ ya. And I thought: hell, she says it’s logical to try, an’ who am I to argue with Vulcan logic?”

“I’ll remind you of that next time you question her condescendingly reasonable suggestions in a briefing.” So, T’Pol had noticed. It could have been worse. She, at least, was discreet.

If it had been Hoshi or Mayweather, he’d never have heard the end of it. 

“Just ‘cause she’s right once in a mission.”

Trip’s bottom lip wobbled quite convincingly, and Malcolm gave him a smacking kiss by way of consolation. “She’s still bloody annoying at times,” he agreed, faintly surprised to be holding a near-normal conversation on the morning after. “But I do wish she’d shared her insight with me. I might’ve had a present ready for you then.”

The eyes of both men were drawn briefly to the little model ship on the corner of Reed’s desk. “Darlin’, I got the best Christmas present ever when I opened my eyes and saw you still sleepin’ beside me,” Trip pledged as his hold tightened, one hand sliding down to splay at the small of Malcolm’s back. He shifted a fraction, bringing their growing erections into heavenly contact, his eyes rolling as the brunet’s slipped shut. “And I think it’s time I unwrapped it now. Whadda you say?”

“Merry – oh! – Christmas!” was all Malcolm could manage for a considerable length of time.


End file.
